The Sound of Silence
by Bebedora
Summary: Silence makes even the strongest of warriors break eventually. Whumptober Day 7-ISOLATION.


The Sound of Silence

[[Whumptober prompt—ISOLATION]]

Darkness.

Blacker than black.

Soundproof.

Haunting.

Squall sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, his bare and bleeding back up against the wall. His head throbbed, and he couldn't be sure what was real anymore. The cell walls were closing in on him like a vise. Laughing at him.

Having diplomatically declined to give his captors any information other than his rank and identification number; they had been more than willing to _try _and beat the intel out of him. He was proud that he never cracked. When they had either grown tired of his antics—or just plain exhausted themselves—they had simply thrown him into an isolation cell.

Locked the door.

Walked away.

Squall had no idea how long he wallowed in the pitch-black. He had no concept of time. Had it been only a few minutes? Hours? Days? Any attempt at calming techniques learned during years of SeeD training had long since failed. Deep breaths replaced by raspy, skittish gasps. His once-confident hands, used to bearing the weight of the mighty Lionheart, reduced to nothing more than useless, clammy, shaking appendages. Not worthy to hold a weapon, not worthy to hold out in submission as he begged for mercy.

He was alone.

Trapped.

From the darkness, they came.

Demons. Ghosts. Malevolent monsters, clawing at his flesh. Feasting on his blood, their jagged teeth slicing into his veins. Pushing and prodding with crystalline claws, encouraging his life essence to weep from hundreds of tiny puncture wounds.

He backed himself into the corner of the cell. Hands covering his eyes. They couldn't get him if they couldn't see him.

It was of no use.

Squall listened to their gnashing teeth, their inhuman, ghastly cries. The breath of the dead, whispering in his ear, encouraging him not to fight. That he would be next, whether he liked it or not.

He panicked.

They dissolved his skin with their acidic saliva.

He clawed at the walls, hyperventilating.

They broke his legs, sucking out the marrow as he attempted to writhe away.

He screamed.

The ghouls kept coming.

Tearing at his skin, plunging their bony, spectral hands directly into his chest. Pulled out his heart, still beating, and showed it to him. Miraculously illuminated in the ebony void.

His breath hitched and he could no longer breathe. Could no longer scream.

The entities laughed. Feasted on his heart, passing it around until nothing remained.

How was he still alive?

Squall convulsed. Slumped to the ground and screamed, begging Hyne to release him from this torture.

The door clanked opened.

Light.

Searing, blinding his weakened eyes.

He backed himself into the corner once more, terrified of what was coming for him.

"_Sweet Hyne, I found him!"_

Hands, gentle yet strong, checking his body for wounds. The scent of days-old floral perfume, barely lingering over the aroma of the battlefield. The click-clack of familiar shoes. Whoever it was knelt beside him, concern in their voices growing when he refused to respond to their questions.

"_How the hell did he survive this long without any water?"_

He tried to get away. Begged them to let him go. Lashed out physically, even in his weakened state. He wouldn't let them take him. Not again.

"_Squall…please…let us help you." _

He tried to look at their faces, knew they should be friendly from the sound of their voices. But all he saw was malice. Selphie—morphing into a Deathclaw, viscous slime dripping from her gaping maw, filled with fangs. Zell—zombified and decaying, his brittle bones popping through rotten patches of flesh. And Irvine—translucent and demonic, horns jutting through his signature hat. He smirked before pulling out his gun and pointing it directly at Squall's forehead.

"_What did they do to him…?"_

Squall flailed. Screamed. He had to get away.

"_Grab him and let's go, they're gonna be back any second!"_

Rough movements. Jarring and painful. He had been hauled to his feet; strong arms linked under each of his own. He could smell his own blood. Sweat. As he was dragged out into the prison proper, his eyes refused to adjust to the light. And so, he screwed them shut. Allowed himself to be taken.

He gave up.

At least the demons didn't follow him.

_Every single one of these Whumptober prompts that I *should not be* writing because I have a book deadline is Saber_Wing's fault. Also, she's an awesome beta. _


End file.
